I go to a Capitol Hill bank to make a deposit. Sitting in the drive-through, I put my slips through the teller’s drawer. She picks up the paychecks from The Stranger and says from behind her glass, “Oh, do you work for The Stranger? A lot of people from The Stranger come here.”
I have a habit of not chit-chatting with strangers, and certainly I do not volunteer personal information to them. It always startles me slightly when people I don't know - even bank tellers, whom one supposes have access to a certain level of one’s personal information - ask me such questions. I think of it as a ladylike reserve. But Max informs me I’m a bit of a curmudgeon, so I tell myself, I’m sure she just means to be friendly. Thus, I smile and say, “Yes.”
“Oh, what do you do for them?”
Ok-ay. “I write for them.”
“What do you write?” She's still smiling brightly at me as she counts my money. Do I want to have this conversation? Not particularly. Do I see a polite way out? Not really. I suppose I could claim to be Erica Barnett, but that’s not the name on my check.
She furrows her brow quizzically at me. Ah, so fickle is fame. “I’m Mistress Matisse.”
“Oh. OH. Oh, really.” She looks down at her desk, away from me. “So, anything else for you today?”
Hey, don’t ask the question if you don’t want to know the answer.
Monk is modeling his outfit for Folsom Street Fair for us. “I just need to make sure I look gay enough,” he says seriously. You see, Monk is always one to wear the appropriate costume for an event, and since FSF is a heavily gay-male event, Monk is dressed like, well, a gay leatherman. But I won’t give details, as he might want those for his blog.
“Honey, I think you look as gay as a straight guy can look,” I say.
“But is gay enough?” Because with Monk, whatever it is he’s doing, it can’t ever be just-okay. It has to be faaaaaaabulous.
“Dude, you could be a backup dancer for the Village People. That’s a very gay outfit.”
Nerdy and her companion agree. Then Nerdy says something about Monk being an otter.
I say, no, he’s not an otter. “He’s not hairy enough to be an otter. Galahad is an otter.*”
“Well, he’s not a twink. Or a bear.”
“He doesn’t really have to be any of them, you know,” I say, laughing. “Especially since he’s not really gay.”
“But do I look gay?” says Monk, getting us back to the important matter at hand.
We all assure him he couldn’t look gayer unless he was fucking a twinkie boy in the ass with a cigar in his mouth.
Hopefully I’ll get a picture of him at the fair proper.
*Galahad is actually not gay, either. Although like Monk, he enjoys flirting with gay men.